Drops of Rain
by Mir
Summary: A collection of scenes from the RK canon. Part V: According to the old woman, the narrow mountain pass, twisting upward toward the heavens until it disappeared into the scratchy pattern of pine trees carpeting the rocky slopes, would close in two weeks...
1. Harmony 調和

**Drops of Rain  
**By Mir

Part I: Harmony (調和)

_Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin was created by Watsuki Nobuhiro, published by Shueisha in "Jump," and produced by Sony Entertainment. All rights are theirs._

AN: I don't normally write short things, and I admit that I'm generally not a hug fan of the short "drabble" type pieces that have become popular. Nonetheless as it is currently exam-season, and procrastination is a beautiful thing, I've decided to make my own contribution to the genre. I've written a few, so I'll probably post one a day until I lose interest…  
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Beneath the shadow of the porch, I lean against the familiar post. The wood digs into my shoulder blades, as it always does. No, of course I don't mind. After all, habits are habits. I tilt my head backwards until it fits into the grove worn from the same motion repeated time and time again, then fold my arms across my chest and exhale softly. A bird's shadow crosses overhead, and noises filter through my mind. 

The summer breeze, hardly more than a sigh amidst the midday head flitters across the yard doing little more than scattering the dust at my feet. From the kitchen, the rhythmic tap-tap of steel is indicative of dinner. Kenshin, of course. No one else in the dojo is to be trusted near anything edible. And from around the corner, the swish-swish of sword cuts continues. Yahiko, if anything, is dedicated. Stubborn, annoying, obnoxious, loud—did I mention obnoxious? But dedicated. From the opposite side of the compound, a trail of steam twists into the sky above the crackling of fire, even warmer than the summer heat. No one dares approach the bath-house with Jo-chan inside. There are some lessons in life that are difficult to forget. And finally, from beyond the walls, like the fourth cardinal point, the clomp-clomp of geta against the dirt. So what if the rhythm of her footsteps is engraved in my mind. I've never once been mistaken.

"Sano." Ah, two can play her games. "Sanosuke!" With prolonged slowness I crack an eyes open in feigned annoyance. As expected, she's standing half a pace away, mimicking my cross-armed pose with the sun caressing her shoulders. A dissatisfied woman is a scary creature indeed.

And, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, I grin. Because life's in perfect order in the place that is—more than anywhere else—my home.

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.** End Notes:** This is actually a highly-edited repost of a piece I posted 5-min ago. I disliked the first one that much. The title is "harmony" and the characters to the right are read "chouwa," meaning the same in Japanese.

「あの香りとともに　花火がぱっと開く」


	2. Stream of Time 時流

**Drops of Rain  
**By Mir

Part II: Stream of Time (時流)

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Perched above the shallow strip of blue water, I wilt beneath the summer heat despite my best efforts to ignore it. Market-bound, I couldn't help but pause for just a moment in a spot where I've pondered life many an afternoon before. Occasionally someone will stare—at me, the sakabatou, whatever—but most pass by without a second glance. As always, we see what we want to see and let our eyes glide across the rest. 

Few people truly knew the horrors this new era was built upon. Perhaps it's best that way. For like the summer heat, memories too will fade, and all that will remain are nothing but names and words. Sometimes I laugh when I try to imagine how history will remember us. Not myself of course; the government will never admit to my role in Kyoto, and with Okubo stolen from us, with every passing year fewer and fewer will remember that I was actually flesh and blood. No, it is the politicians who whose faces stare out from textbooks' pages, whose memoirs will gather dust on our children's' bookshelves. Recognition is reserved for the architects of the new era, not the destroyers of the previous.

An insect of some sort circles around my head, and without thinking I raise a hand to brush it away. Behind me, the steady stream of wooden sandals flows back and forth across the arched bridge, and voices rise and fall with the light cadence of ocean tides. Kaoru doesn't hesitate to chide me—when my mind wanders into thought and leaves my body waiting expectantly behind. I should tell her that most of the time, it is the future that I'm pondering, not the past.

Almost reluctantly I turn away from the railing, away from the stillness of thought. The shadows, as ever, grow longer.

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**  
End Notes:** Part two of this collection. I'm the middle of writing a paper about China's military industrial complex (in particular the telecommunications sector), and this is a nice respite from such an academic task. 


	3. Family 家族

**Drops of Rain**  
By Mir 

Part III: Family (家族)

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Kasumi was the oldest, evident more through her demeanor than any recognizable physical trait. Though there was nothing particularly remarkable about her appearance, save for dark brown eyes that glistened like damp bark after the rain—the soft curve of her smile and the silhouette of her profile against the morning sun somehow reminded me of the mother I could only remember. She was that soft flutter of memory at the back of my mind, the slender fingers that combed the tangles from my hair, the steady voice that whispered in my ear when I shied away from the darkness of night. But she wasn't my mother, of course. 

Perhaps it was because she was an earlier addition to the slave traders' human stock as they rampaged from village to village across the countryside. The day Akane and I joined the procession, it was her encouragement alone that convinced us to keep walking, and that evening, it was against her steady shoulder that I cried for all those who I once called family and friends.

"Sister," I'd once asked her as the sun began to sink beneath the trees and the onset of evening brought with it the promise of rest and food. "Why are you here?"

"The same as you," she'd replied flatly. I waited, hoping perhaps for a story of her family or village. Family had become something of an obsession for me as we traveled through sparsely-inhabited lands. But she pressed her lips together and stared resolutely ahead, refusing to meet my imploring gaze. I might have persisted despite my better judgment had Sakura not caught my hand in hers and with a tight squeeze, warned me to hold my tongue.

And so, during our few days together, it was as though we existed without past or the future, just a constant stream present moments shared between the four of us. Only years later would I be able to put words to that instinctive feeling that mourning is a luxury that must sometimes be postponed until long after the initial feeling has faded from one's heart.

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**End Notes:** Sorry for the enormous pause. It's called exams. Anyhow, this one is slightly different from the previous two—more of a memory than a moment captured as it's unfolding. And yes, I am aware that according to the Kyoto arc, Kenshin only knows the girls for a day before he's rescued by Hiko. 


	4. Complaints 文句

**Drops of Rain**

By Mir

Part IV: Complaints (文句)

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"Yahiko," she'd begun one winter evening as we sat around the table picking at the last remains of dinner. "Kenshin and I…" She glanced sidewise at her husband, only to discover that he'd disappeared into the kitchen. "Well, there's going to be a baby." Unfortunately, the last words were an unintelligible jumble of sounds falling over each other in scattered tumble toward the floor. I nodded distractedly and concentrated on the stubborn grains of rice sticking to the bottom of my bowl. Only days later would I truly realize what she'd meant at the time. 

There are some things in life you can never say out loud—or rather, it's simply better to keep them to yourself. Even from the far corner of the yard across the walkway and beyond the storehouse, I could hear their dialogue again, that same refrain. His worried questions as I shoved the trowel deep into the dirt, her reassurances as I extracted the blade covered in damp earth. If it were anyone else, any other pair, I might have wondered whether there was hope for change. But in present company, I knew without a doubt that such thoughts would only be wishful thinking. After all, it would be difficult to find two people more stubborn than those rounding the corner hand-in-hand. Not even the rooster-head and his fox could compare.

Even now, years after our first fateful meeting, I admit that there are things I just can't tell my sensei—Like how the late afternoon sunlight turns her hair into a glittering stream of black that falls across her shoulders. Or how, in fact, I like it when she and Kenshin hold hands. She would laugh, of course, if I even hinted such a thought within earshot. And it would be something I would never, in all my years, live down. But somehow, though it sounds embarrassingly silly, girly even, it's as though just the sight of the two of them together signifies that all is right in the world, and everything is as it should be. But of course, they'll never hear it from my mouth.

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**End Notes:** This one is rather lacking in the cohesion department. In fact, it's essentially two ideas that I stuck together. Maybe I'll try to finish that half-finished chapter of _Divergence_ that's taking up space on my computer…. 

Thank you especially to sueb262, LadyRhiyana, skenshingumi, and older woman, who have reviewed this piece. Your words, as always, are greatly appreciated.


	5. Parallel 平行

**Drops of Rain**

By Mir

Part V: Parallel (平行)

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According to the old woman, the narrow mountain pass, twisting upward toward the heavens until it disappeared into the scratchy pattern of pine trees carpeting the rocky slopes, would close in two weeks. While sipping tea outside her tiny roadside way station, I'd off-handedly mentioned my intention of crossing the ridge before the road became impassible with the season's first snow. Naturally, she'd said it was impossible. "Please don't worry," I'd replied with a thin smile. If only she knew—I'd probably walked further in my brief lifetime than she had in her multitude of decades. The route through the central alps, although an official government highway, was far less traveled than that connecting Kyoto and Tokyo via the Eastern shore, and the post towns along the way were correspondingly small and rural. "I walk quite fast, you see," I added in reassurance when the woman's gaze remained resolutely skeptical. "And this is not the first time I've walked this mountain road."

And indeed, that much was true. Not more than two years ago I had found myself in the Kiso Valley and followed the narrow, twisting Nakasendō that hugs the mountain cliffs from Matsumoto to Nagoya. The handful of tiny post towns with names like Magome, Tsumago, and Kiso-Hirasawa existed almost solely for the purpose of providing lodging for weary travelers. But in those days, it was only with reluctance that I stopped for lodging overnight. There were always too many wandering eyes and prying questions.

"Well, young man," the woman's voice drew me sharply from the grip of memory. "If you insist on traveling so late in the season, please be careful." Her voice, though chiding, was soft, and her eyes bore the look of someone who had dealt with several generations of headstrong youth. "The last thing this world needs is another boy dying for no good reason and leaving those who care about him behind." I almost told her the truth, almost confessed my solitary state to a stranger in the middle of the mountains. _Oh, there's no one waiting for me_. I saw myself casually replying in my mind. A nod of a head, a wave of a hand. Even in these parts, it wouldn't have been too suspicious to admit to being alone. But I said nothing, only drained the last of my tea and shouldered my small bundle of possessions. "Thank you for your kindness, but I'm afraid I must be on my way."

One foot in front of the other, the barest hint of rain clouds overhead. And in my mind, a thought arose like dew evaporating into the morning sky. Perhaps… of all people, maybe he would care if I disappeared forever into the winter snow. Though I couldn't imagine why. Himura. Would we ever meet again one day and sit across from each other as acquaintances, not enemies?

But although the nagging feeling of possibility lingered, the moment passed, and once again I was by myself beneath the pines on the Nakasendō. I blinked. Must be the weather—does strange things to a person's head….

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**End Notes:** Unlike the previous part, this one almost seemed to write itself. Perhaps it's because I think fondly of the few days I myself spent in the Japanese alps. Tsumago in particular was such a beautifully history location. 

Can you see why I titled this piece _parallel_? And did the identity of the speaker surprise you? If you still can't guess, the timeframe is immediately after the Kyoto arc.


End file.
